Page 15 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I nod, but I’m not sure that the switch would make a dent in Alistair’s skincare routine; that guy’s product lineup puts Mark’sto shame. He even had a few basic makeup products for me to pick through after I washed off the remnants of last night’s face. I may stillfeellike death warmed over, but the five-minute beautifying routine has made melookless like a corpse.
Changing into the clothing the guys had rounded up was also restorative. While I have zero doubt that the pile was all keepsakes from my hosts’ sexual conquests past, the desiccated Tide pod adhered to one of the hoodies supported their claim that it had all been washed, and I dove in. After vetoing anything in UT’s distinct burnt orange, I settled on a pair of black running shorts, a top with a built-in shelf bra, and a blue hoodie. They even had flip-flops in my size.
Comfortably dressed, features drawn in to a degree of discernibility, and my tummy lined with a base of oven-cooked bacon (a revelation to the trio, though I don’t know that it’s any less a fire hazard when they forget that they’re cooking in the first place), I’m feeling a solid 63 percent human, and up to a field trip to my workplace-to-be.
While I try to count the protein bar wrappers and discarded energy drinks littering the floor of the passenger side, Grant and Diego pepper me with factoids about the gym. It’s in a decommissioned firehouse, and named Firehouse Fitness, which Diego thinks is very clever. Grant’s brother opened it after an injury ended his weight-lifting career a few years back.
“Saturday morning is the big endurance class,” says Grant. “We usually come, but we stayed home so you wouldn’t wake up to an empty house. That would’ve been weird.”
I smile. “Thank you for that.” It’s remarkable how these guys can be so clueless and yet totally thoughtful. Full hearts, emptyheads, the lot of them. I love it. I still can’t believe I’ve agreed tolive with them, but I love it!
“We’re here!” Diego leans between the front seat to point to the building ahead, which is, for all appearances, a classic firehouse. It has two large truck bays, the garage doors open to the increasingly balmy Austin morning. The driveway has been covered in green turf, and a series of tractor tires lean against the fence that separates the gym from an alley. A red awning stretches over the turf, casting what must be blessed shade over the sweaty bodies littering the ground.
And holyhell, are there bodies.
At least a dozen people are sprawled on the turf while a handful of athletes wrap up their workout. One guy is using a jump rope impossibly fast, the line slipping underfoot twice between jumps. A woman, middle-aged and in a T-shirt readingBUT DID YOU DIE?is jumping onto a low wooden box, then hopping off the opposite side, before turning around and going back again. Over, and over, and over, just like the guys with their workout earlier.
“Excuse me” I hear, and I step aside as a fellow who cannot be less than seventy shuffles past me. In each hand is a green handled ball, like the ones in the guys’ shed, held down at his sides. Every muscle in his—I blink—hisincongruously jackedarms is corded and taut, and as he crosses some invisible finish line, he releases the green things to the turf with a guttural cry. He throws up his hands, fingers still curled around phantom handles, and gasps out a laugh as others shout their support. A few of the downed athletes clap, but the older guy isn’t done yet. He picks up a jump rope from beside his weights and begins jumping.
His approach is the single hop I’m familiar with, but he gets in some doubles, too. As he works, the initial guy concludes to someapplause, then joins the fallen, but no one who’s finished leaves their spot or starts putting away their stuff. They just watch and offer encouragement. Except for the gal at the box; it’s all hop, hop, hop over there. The guys had a box in their setup, too. Looks questionable. Questionable, but… fun?
“How old is that guy jumping rope?” I ask.
“Tom? He’s, like, seventy-five? He lives next door. Came in the first week to yell at Ian about the music being too loud, and we gave him a trial membership. He’s been here ever since.”
I nod, watching him continue to jump. How many is he going to do?
“Then, Tom recruited a bunch of his neighbors,” Grant is saying, “and they’re all here, too. That crew rolls in for the five a.m. class during the week.”
“They do coffee at Tom’s after,” chimes Diego. “It’s really cute. He makes espresso.”
“Tom has diabetes,” Alistair says, his voice low. “Type two. His doctor had been trying to get him to pick up some form of activity for years.”
“Better late than never,” I offer.
Alistair makes a dismissive noise. “Better tonotget diabetes in the first place.”
Grant shrugs. “You gotta take charge of your body while you can.”
While you canreverberates in my brain with all the subtlety of a gong. It rouses my awareness of the six-month diagnosis window from where I’d banished it after shaking on the lease. How long might I have to take charge of my body?
My whole body flashes hot, my heart rate spiking in vicarious thrill as I watch the athletes work. It’s the feeling I’d get before arace at swim meets in high school, the thrum of anticipation, the itch to move. Iwantto do this.
While I can.
In a lot of ways, my body is an unknown. I can read the signs of oncoming pain and do my best to mitigate when it arrives, but I’ve never explored the limits of what my body cando. Can I do a pull-up? If I tried, would I be able to do the double-jumps?
There’s a rope hanging from a beam extending above a window on the second floor of the building. It’s thick, like the ones people climb in gym class in movies and on TV. I’ve never had to do that, and I don’t know how long I’ll have to find out if I can.
MS isn’t a death sentence. To quote my neurologist, patients “die with it, not from it,” and the majority of people living with MS remain fully ambulatory even decades after being diagnosed. But there’s no question that the condition would have a significant impact on my life.
My pulse thrills again, adrenaline surging through my limbs until they tingle with the need to move. I want to know what I can do. More than that: I want to have command of my body and push it to do more than whatever it’s capable of now. I want to do thrusters and muscle-ups and carry those ball things with Tom. Maybe have an espresso.
Thenow what?has been actualized. This isit. I’m going to dothiswhile I can.
I’m filled with a sense of purpose as I stride through the nearest bay door.
And freeze.
